Yarden

Is that spring in the yarden?
Offsprog One bought me a clutch of hellebores a couple of years ago from Columbia Road Market; they were planted in the ex-compost pot and they are thriving: wonderful white petals mixed with gorgeous greenish-purple.
A discarded hyacinth bulb, nibbled at by urban rats, has defiantly burst into bloom and shouts 'BLUE! BLUE! BLUE!' against next door's decaying red brick wall.
In a big, ugly, red plastic pot, a clutch of delicate miniature daffodils quiver like indignant elders huddled together at a bus stop.
The spiky quince has given up on dying and is producing pink fists of maybe-blossom against it's better judgement, and the pink and blue plant that the bees like (pulmonaria? pulsatilla?) that I can't remember the name of has decided that it's almost time to come out to play.
Sparrows have already nipped through the buds of my precious, delicate climbing alpine clematis, and one lone snowdrop has piped up in its little white voice to scold the constant lashings by winter wind and rain.
Hold back fellas- nature has a habit of stamping on all this hope with an icy foot!